Tweet
Lustrous Lustron
The house post-World War II America was waiting for, these prefabricated steel wonders were meant to revolutionize mid-century life
In 1948, Americans could not stop talking about the shiny steel house of the future. Popular magazines, including Time, Life, and The Saturday Evening Post, ran multi-page, full-color Lustron Corporation advertisements trumpeting “The House America Has Been Waiting For.” McCall’s described how the new houses—made of 20-gauge pressed steel fused at 1,300 degrees with porcelain enamel—resist termites, fire, lightning, rats, and many other “maladies” of the lumber-built house. Look magazine called the Lustron a “dream house” and fawned over its in-ceiling radiant heating system, designed to send waves of warmth down the metal panels and into every nook and cranny. Consumer Reports certified its materials and construction “excellent,” and Lustron inventor Carl Strandlund did the 1948 equivalent of a media tour, including an interview with United Press Radio that was picked up by more than 150 radio stations.
So when one of these curious Lustrons, sheathed with “Surf Blue” porcelain-steel tiles, was unveiled in south Minneapolis on January 15, 1949, people showed up in droves to pay the 25-cent admission fee to see the real thing. Local celebrities and dignitaries pressed the flesh, and crowds crushed forward to tour the 13.5-ton house that had been shipped in 3,000 pieces and assembled on Cedar Avenue.
Mr. and Mrs. Frank Kellner were probably at the scene on that unseasonably warm January day. Perhaps they admired the smooth, steel tiles coated in porcelain, puzzled over the combination clothes-and-dish washer in the kitchen, or felt interior walls warmed by the in-ceiling radiant heating system. Surely something impressed them, because just four months later, the Kellners paid $10,000 for a brand-new Lustron ($7,450 was the average cost of a new home in 1949). Their “Westchester Deluxe” Lustron was assembled, enameled part by enameled part, in July 1949 on a site just off Theodore Wirth Park. It hasn’t moved since. The Kellners are long gone, but in their place is Boozie Fudenberg, a semi-retired bachelor who cares for his little piece of post-war Americana as he would a 1958 Corvette Stingray.
Photo by Chad Holder
Not that he hasn’t had his challenges. The Lustron’s radiant heating system, for instance, with its heating panels in the ceiling, was designed in opposition to the laws of physics. The result: chill-the-bone cold floors. On top of that, when Fudenberg’s vintage Williams Oil-O-Matic furnace finally gave up the ghost in 1994, it happened to be 20 degrees below zero outside. “The guy from Minnegasco came out, red-tagged my furnace, and said, ‘I don’t know what you’ve got going here, but it looks like you got yourself a nice summer home,’” says Fudenberg.
Then there’s the metal-tile roof. The first time a big pile of snow went crashing off the roof, Fudenberg woke with a start, thinking his house had just collapsed. To say nothing of the Thor AutoMagic Clothes & Dish Washer—“A sink to delight any housewife’s heart,” gushed one advertisement. That was such a dismal failure that it was removed long before Fudenberg bought his Lustron in 1989 for the bargain price of $49,000.
That said, Fudenberg’s home has never stained, faded, cracked, or peeled. It’s never needed painting, refinishing, or re-roofing, even after 60 years. “All I do is put a little bit of metal cleaner on a rag, and I can buff my house up to a shine,” says Fudenberg. “It really is the General Motors of houses.”
The previous occupant had covered up the interior metal with wood paneling. So Fudenberg, using razor blades and paint thinner, pried the wood paneling off and scraped off all the glue—no small job considering the home, with just 1,085 square feet of floor space, has more than 7,000 interior square feet of porcelain-enameled surface. “I just waxed it down, and it looked brand, spanking new,” he says.
For several years, he’s worked with long-time friend Mary Dworsky, principal of Dworsky Interior Design, to revamp the space with a few period furnishings. Some items he picked up from local retro-antiques dealers, but most he inherited from his parents, Florence and Herman. He thinks of his Yiddish-speaking mom and dad often, living in a house that is a tribute to the optimism of their generation. The steel-clad home also brings back sweet childhood memories of growing up in St. Paul’s Crocus Hill neighborhood, collecting Ted Williams baseball cards, hanging around with the neighbor kids, and enduring loving torture from three older sisters. “It was a wonderful time to be a kid,” he says. “People left their doors open. Really, it was the best of times.”
It may have been the best of times for Fudenberg, but not for the Lustron Corporation, which declared bankruptcy just 19 months after its first house rolled off the steel presses. The Columbus, Ohio-based company had constructed 2,498 homes by the time Strandlund closed the doors of the adapted aircraft plant in 1950. Most of the 42 Lustrons that were shipped to Minnesota have been razed. But not Boozie Fudenberg’s. He diligently presses on, polishing the enameled steel walls of the house America once waited for.
Alyssa Ford is the associate editor of Midwest Home.
For more information on featured products and suppliers, please see our Buyer's Guide.
6 ISSUES (1 YEAR)
Comments may be edited for length, clarity, or appropriateness.